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| THE RED flamingo flew up from the South, | |
| From the land all withered and parched with drouth. | |
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| He gleamed on the sky like a flaming brand | |
| Blown from a burning prairie land. | |
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| He waded deep through the dark morass, | 5 |
| In the samphire beds, and the cool dank grass. | |
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| When the wind blew east, to the sea he went, | |
| Red as the sun in the firmament, | |
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| And turned aside, with a look aslant, | |
| At the deadly eye of the cormorant. | 10 |
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| And the eagle, old with a hundred years, | |
| From the height of his vaulted eyry peers. | |
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| When the wind blew west, to the fields he sped, | |
| Where the blue-eyed gentian lifts its head; | |
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| And the dew flushed red to a scarlet dye | 15 |
| On the lily’s breast, as he floated by; | |
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| And here and there, in the silent dell, | |
| From his wing a scarlet feather fell. | |
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| He sailed on his way as the mariner sails, | |
| With stout heart fearing nor wind nor gales. | 20 |
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| On and on through the land he went, | |
| Like a fleet and royal messenger sent, | |
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| Till he came at last to an ancient town | |
| Never on map or chart laid down. | |
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| His wearied wings beat soft and low, | 25 |
| For the dreary streets were of muffled snow. | |
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| The houses were counted by two and two, | |
| And the footsteps numbered were faint and few. | |
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| The ships that had sailed to that silent shore | |
| Were bound, snow-locked, without mast or oar. | 30 |
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| The shrouds had vanished,—a dreary wreck, | |
| With the tropic bird on the lonely deck. | |
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| His eye grew dim in the cold, wan light, | |
| And his royal plumage blanched snow-white. | |
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| He strained his gaze to the farthest north, | 35 |
| And again on fluttering wings went forth, | |
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| And sailed away, with his plumage pale | |
| Forever hid by a snowy veil. | |
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| Whether he drifted east or west, | |
| And gazed on a mighty mountain crest, | 40 |
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| Or a glorious sea with turrets high | |
| Reaching far up to the polar sky, | |
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| Or drooped in death on a waste of snow, | |
| His secret none shall ever know. | |
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| He lived his life on his errand sent, | 45 |
| And tracked the path of a continent. | |
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| Whoever has crossed to that silent strand | |
| Has passed beyond to an unknown land. | |
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| Buried in snow, and under the gates, | |
| Frozen and stark the sentinel waits | 50 |
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| Till the snow shall be lifted from off his breast, | |
| And the pathway cleared to the great Northwest! | |
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